In the weeks leading up to the surgery date, I worked light duties over full hours. The promise of two weeks off work filled me with a hankering to proceed—managing to push away a mixture of wanting to get it over with and morbid thoughts of amputations and death on the table.
A surprise visit from our niece and partner was a welcome distraction on the eve of the impending procedure.
On the day, duly fasting in preparation, I printed confirmation letters, checked what to wear, and estimated my time at the hospital.
My husband dropped me off at the private hospital. After a short Q&A, I was checked in by 1:15 pm for a 1:30 pm admission time—attired in trackie pants, an oversized white t-shirt, black socks, black Archies, and needlessly topped off by a green towelling M&S dressing gown circa 1993. I sat in the lobby awaiting collection.
One of four names called, we were escorted via a wall-mounted hand-sanitising station to a space reminiscent of somewhere that would have been right at home next to a school gym. Maybe it was the walls lined with lockers, cupboards, and shelving. I was finding it challenging to focus on The Life and Loves of a He Devil, borrowed from the communal library of our residence building, with half an eye on the TV playing The Chase or some other game show with the volume turned up too high.
Eventually, I was invited into a tired, seemingly crowded disabled showering room to change into surgical attire. I found the dark, oversized shadows of footprints pointed towards the shower head a little disconcerting. After being told to leave my underwear on, the nurse put the bag containing their gear on top of the closed toilet lid. I moved it onto the shower chair, aiming to undress on one toe in an attempt to avoid touching the floor with bare flesh. I’m sure the room was clean, just past its use-by date. Then, needing to sit down to put on red ankle socks dotted with white anti-slip circles, I moved the bag back to the toilet.
I was invited to another waiting room, a bit like a 1980s hotel with old people’s home furniture. A notice board sign indicated I still had to go through theatre check-in. I had to stop myself from nodding off in the waiting room. By 4:00 pm, I’d watched one episode of Friends and two of Frasier.
The next bit seemed to happen very quickly. I was taken to an intermediary space where vitals were checked, compression stockings wrangled onto my legs, and a disposable identity bracelet was affixed to my right ankle. I was unsure what to think about the dark blue-clad figure floundering around on the floor in front of me trying to get the stockings on. My belongings were secured in a shelved cupboard.
Accompanied by a nurse, I descended in a lift. When she asked why I limped, I explained I was on the public waiting list to see a surgeon for my right hip. I briefly considered her suggestion of signing up for private health insurance and waiting a year. I was asked to lie on a narrow bed, and an anaesthetic nurse introduced herself. Following an extensive round of questions and answers—name, date of birth, procedure, surgical site, allergies, name of surgeon, and so on—I was wheeled away by the chatty nurse. Overhead, ceiling-mounted lamps illuminated a warren of gloomy-cornered corridors cluttered with equipment and people.
Arriving at the “only theatre with a view,” I spied the unmistakable shape of a palm crown gently swaying through a high-level window in the anteroom, which seemed to be used as a thoroughfare for all and sundry. The anaesthetist introduced himself, and my specialist stopped by to say hi. He and his stubble looked much more appealing in scrubs than he did when I’d met him suited in his rooms over a month earlier.
Bizarrely, after installing a cannula into my right arm, the anaesthetic nurse had me get off the bed, walk into the next room, and climb onto an almost too-high operating table.
When I came around, I became aware of concerns about my blood pressure being too high, with people fluttering around trying things to get it down. I drifted in and out of consciousness, wondering if they would offer me weak, lukewarm milky tea—and, more importantly, the flavour of a much-anticipated sandwich.
Sliced ham, cheese, and lettuce on thin-sliced white bread that stuck to the roof of my mouth was the order of the day. I took care to take small bites after an initial, silent, not-wanting-to-make-a-fuss choking incident. Soon, I was buzzing after two not unsatisfactory cups of coffee with milk.
I was discharged at 8:00 pm, the handover from nurse to my husband picking me up at the drop-off/pick-up zone going off without a hitch.